Shut up, he thought. Shut up, shut up. There were too many things still hanging hidden in this conversation. Too many risks. And as much as he wanted to intervene, that might make things worse.
Temerity glanced at him, then crossed to take Farideh’s hand. “I should have guessed. Were you just going to leave her out there in the dark?” she asked Lorcan. “She can handle herself.”
“But can she handle Proskur?” Temerity considered Farideh. Looking for all the world as if she and the younger tiefling were about to be dear friends. Lorcan edged nearer.
Temerity turned Farideh’s arm up, revealing the fading streaks of dark magic tinting her veins. “A warlock,” she said, rubbing a hand over her forearm. “And so young.”
“Not that young,” Lorcan pointed out. “No younger than you were.” But the jab didn’t shift her attention, her growing ire back to him.
“Well,” Temerity said to Farideh, “then you still have time to grow wiser.” Still holding Farideh’s arm, Temerity looked over at Lorcan. “Whose heir is she?”
Shit. Shit. Lorcan sighed dramatically. “Can’t you guess? I feel as if every time I replace my Greybeard heir, they can hardly don their own clothes without instruction.” Lorcan shook his head, as if exasperated—not a lie, but the careful placement of truth by truth, and he prided himself on the difference. It was, after all, the sort of thing that separated devils from the cacophony of fiends howling throughout the planes. “What part of ‘sit outside and wait’ did you misunderstand?” he asked Farideh.
Farideh kept her blank expression, but her cheeks reddened and she wouldn’t look at him. Good enough, he thought. Fix it later. You’ll think of something.
Temerity held his gaze for a long time, as if she were trying to decide whether there was something to tease out of his comment.
“Don’t you have a little side room or something she could wait in?” he asked. “I seem to recall you do.”
Temerity rolled Farideh’s sleeve down over her wrist, any trace of her previous tractability gone. “Ten months is a long time,” she said. “I’ve had offers. Several. I won’t tell you it’s not tempting. But none of them said they could get me what I really want, so what was the point?”
“It’s hard to reclaim that sort of thing,” Lorcan admitted. This was going all the wrong ways. Four steps to Farideh. Twelve steps to the door.
“But not impossible,” Temerity said. “It sounds to me like there are plenty in the Hells who’ll consider a trade,” she said. “A soul for a soul.”
“Not many gods look kindly on that sort of trade,” Lorcan reminded her, shifting closer to Farideh, who was still watching Temerity cautiously. Good, he thought—she knew something bad was happening here. “You send another to the Hells, you might well end up unclaimed when your time comes. End up in the Hells anyway.”
“Better odds than I have now.” She stared at Farideh again. “Whose heir are you?”
Farideh glanced at Lorcan. “The Greybeard. Didn’t he say that?”
“It’s Titus Greybeard, dear. You’d know that if you descended from him.” Temerity shook her head. “You’re the Brimstone Angel, aren’t you? The heir of Bryseis Kakistos.”
“Would I walk the streets with such a valuable heir?” Lorcan scoffed. He slipped between the two women, pushing Farideh away from Temerity. Prod her, he thought, provoke her. Get her mad at him. “You knew I had more than one warlock. Just because she’s younger and—”
Temerity shoved him into Farideh. “Don’t play me. You don’t walk the streets with any of your warlocks. Not like this.”
“Necessity makes us all change paths eventually,” Lorcan said. He reached back to push Farideh toward the door, taking careful stock of Temerity’s expression. She’d likely try to scratch his eyes out—she’d tried it before. “You’re wiser than this. Or you were. Temerity, tell me you—”
Temerity pulled the rod from her apron so quickly he couldn’t react. But in the same moment as he spied the spell surging up the implement, Farideh kicked his knees in so that he fell under the bolt. He felt the magic sizzle across the edge of the spell that disguised him.
Before he could stand, Farideh grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back, with a soft gasp of Infernal, through a vent in the world. One moment he was looking up at Temerity, at the rod pointed at his throat, the next there was a fold of darkness and brimstone closing over him, and when it passed, they were at the door. Farideh stepped in front of him, her own rod out and aimed at Temerity. Lorcan scrambled to his feet.
“If you don’t believe I’m no one,” Farideh said quietly, the faintest tremor in her voice, “then I think you know this isn’t a fight you want a part of.”
The dark powers of Malbolge crept up Temerity’s brand, clawing at her throat. “Little girl,” she said coolly, “don’t defend him. He’ll bring you to ruin in the end.”
“So will you, by the sound of it, and a lot quicker,” Farideh said, not lowering the rod. “Lorcan seems to have some fond feelings for you, but I don’t know you. I don’t like you. And your neighbors already seem to think I’m a criminal, so don’t think there is a thing stopping me. If I see you set one foot out into the street after us . . .” She hesitated, no doubt sorting through suitable threats. “I’ll show you what it means to be the heir of Bryseis Kakistos,” she said.
Perfect, he thought.
Temerity didn’t falter, but neither did she come after them as they backed from the shop. The neighbors Farideh had mentioned were watching, and Farideh needed no prodding to hurry away from the shop, Temerity, and any rival Temerity might call down out of the Hells.
I should have cut her loose ages ago, Lorcan thought, glancing back at Temerity’s shop. She’d been easy to catch, young and disaffected and wanting so badly to rise above her grubby upbringing—and pretty enough to make it a pleasure to help her do so. And when the pact hadn’t done that to her liking, it had been a simple thing to trade her soul for a constant trickle of gold and the sorts of spells that kept the watch out of her hair. She’d thought him more a faerie story prince there to rescue her than a devil with his own desires. Age had made her wiser, but not enough to recognize that in her wanting, she was the author of her own fall. Lorcan was only the tool she’d used to make it happen.
And now she was looking for more powerful tools.
The streets were dark and poorly lit as they wound back through Proskur. From the shadows, cold, appraising eyes watched them pass. He kept Farideh pulled close. Try it, he thought at the sharpjaws lingering there. Oh, give me an excuse.
As they walked, Farideh didn’t say a word, and the longer she didn’t talk, the more Lorcan worried. The longer she was silent, the more she was deciding things for herself, not letting Lorcan explain and nudge her conclusions somewhere more palatable.
“You sounded ridiculous, back there,” he said. “Thundering around like some chapbook Chosen. Where did you get that nonsense?”
“One of us had to do something,” she said tightly.
“Darling, that wasn’t what it looked like.”
“Yes it was,” she said, still not looking at him. “I’m not an idiot. That’s how you talk to us. How you keep us in check.” She’d gotten much better at not wearing all her feelings on her sleeve, but not enough to hide the quiet shame and anger from the likes of Lorcan.
“That’s how I talk to Temerity. It’s different.” She said nothing. “You’re different,” he started.
She stopped in her tracks and pulled free of him. “Don’t. You owe me better than that.”
“I’ve given you better,” he said sharply. “I chose you over her back there. I was ready to let her attack me so you could get away. Doesn’t that mean anything?”
She looked away, at the lights of the streetlamps flickering in the gloom. “Not really. You have to choose me. I have the protection spell. Besides, which of us is the rarer heir?” Now she looked at him like she was making herself face all the ugly, sharp edges of the
ir pact. Like she was daring him—or maybe daring herself—to tear away the veils of artifice and careful words.
I would choose you anyway, he thought and hated himself for it. There was no one else on any plane Lorcan would have counted on the way he did Farideh. Allies were dangerous, more ways for the hierarchy of the Hells to manipulate your actions and force your hand. This alliance . . . he didn’t have any sense of how to manage it anymore. But he knew down in the core of himself that he’d take Farideh over every other warlock in his retinue.
And that he would never, never tell her that.
“Margarites,” he said.
Farideh blinked at him. “What?”
“You asked for the name of the warlock Temerity is descended from,” he said. “She was called Margarites.”
“Oh.” Farideh was quiet a moment, as if she were turning that bit of information over in her head. “Was she like Temerity?” she asked finally, though what she was thinking of, Lorcan couldn’t imagine.
“She was reluctant,” he settled on. “They say Margarites was one of the warlocks Bryseis Kakistos coerced. You ought to watch out for those heirs,” he added, as they approached the inn. “Some of them aren’t too happy with their lot.”
“How did she know who I was?”
Lorcan didn’t answer. He could hope it was an accident—a rumor gone ’round the ranks of his sister’s erinyes, the assumption of a rival that Lorcan would stick close to his most valuable heir, a simple guess born of Temerity’s envy and rage.
But there was one person in the Hells who knew for certain Lorcan was traveling with Farideh, and Sairché was not someone it paid to stand around wondering about.
Temerity stood watching the door to her shop, the air clotted with spices and brimstone and unspent magic. The sound of her breath, angry and flustered, was a roar in the room’s quiet.
Sairché stood in the doorway to the rear of the shop, several paces ahead of the portal’s opening, and flanked by two monstrous erinyes, female devils all armor and teeth atop shining hooves. She watched Temerity for several moments, noticing the rage shimmering through the tiefling. Lorcan had surely been here, just as surely as he’d gone.
When the erinyes began to fidget, Sairché sighed. Temerity startled and turned, rod high.
“Well met,” Sairché said. “I gather that didn’t go as we’d discussed. It’s quite all right,” she added when Temerity scowled. “I know he distracts you.”
“He didn’t distract me,” Temerity snapped. “She was with him. She tried to kill me—you didn’t mention that.”
“I didn’t think I had to.”
“She wasn’t just a girl,” Temerity said, as if Sairché hadn’t spoken. “You made it sound as if she were a novice, a nothing, and she tried to kill me.”
“I can all but guarantee whatever she threatened you with was a bluff. Every word.” Behind her, Sairché could hear her half sisters shifting, their hooves dragging on the floorboards as they restlessly reconsidered their stances. Not time to draw things out, she thought.
“Nevertheless,” Sairché said, “you’ve done far better than any of his other warlocks. We can consider our deal complete.”
Sairché pulled a scroll from out of a pocket and handed it over to Temerity. “Your agreement. You’re released from the Pact Certain.”
Temerity unrolled the parchment. “It’s real?”
Sairché smiled. “Of course. I keep my word.”
The tiefling regarded her warily. “He doesn’t. Why should I trust you?”
The erinyes’ building annoyance was palpable now—annoyance at Lorcan, at Temerity, at their little sister playing dress-up with their once exalted mother’s mantle. Sairché was well used to skirting the edges of the hierarchy of the Hells, to plucking secrets and turning them into treasures. Excellent practice for parts of her new status, terrible for others—she had gained some measure of respect from her warrior half sisters, but these sorts of meetings, mortals who didn’t know their places, concessions that seemed out of proportion . . . the erinyes talked.
Sairché gave Temerity a thin smile. “That isn’t my problem.”
“It will be your problem if you’re lying.”
“Well, it hardly matters. You’re going to give it up again.”
“I will not lose it,” Temerity snapped.
“Please. You’ll shift your pact now—you must if you want to keep your powers. You’ll find a new devil, a new patron, a new set of sweet words and promises—don’t deny it. We all have a type. What exactly do you think will go differently?” Sairché moved closer to Temerity and ran a friendly hand down her arm, feeling the tension of her biceps. “Accept it. Only this way, Lorcan doesn’t get the credit, so we can all be pleased by that.”
High spots of color marred Temerity’s creamy cheeks. “You cannot speak to me that way.”
“Have I upset you?” Sairché said, all too aware of the watching erinyes. “Here, let me make it up to you. I’ll give you a safeguard. A way to be sure no devil tricks you out of your soul. All right?”
The muscle of Temerity’s arm softened and her silver glare became wary. “How will you do that?”
Sairché drew the long stiletto blade from her belt and held it up, showing Temerity the gem-studded hilt, the delicate chasing. The tiefling bent a little nearer to see. “It’s a simple thing,” Sairché said. “Hardly takes a moment.”
In one smooth motion, she flipped the blade into a stabbing grip and plunged it between the tiefling’s ribs, forcing it past muscle and organ and deep into her heart. Temerity’s eyes widened, her mouth wide in shock as Sairché twisted the blade, locking it against the bone. Temerity clutched at the gushing wound, gaping up at the cambion.
Sairché turned to her guards, pleased at the faint look of approval they both wore. “When she’s done bleeding,” she said crisply, “do something about the body and get back to the Hells.” She turned back to the door and cast a simple spell to remove the spatter of blood marring her armor, before drawing her wings down and pulling her cloak over them. “I have to attend to our brother.”
If Farideh had asked for details, Havilar thought, lying tangled in the rough sheets and Brin’s arms, she didn’t know what she could possibly say to give it any justice.
Much like kissing, it wasn’t how Havilar had expected—it was stranger and worse and also far, far better. She sighed and settled her head on Brin’s shoulder, careful to avoid butting his jaw with her horns.
“I feel,” she said, “like I passed through another plane. But no one told me.”
Brin chuckled and kissed her forehead. “I like that.”
“And tired,” she added. “I don’t know if I’ve ever been this tired. I don’t even want to move.”
“I’m going to pretend that’s a compliment.”
And, she thought to herself, I didn’t throw up. I have a lover, and I didn’t throw up. A faint breeze stirred the dirty curtains over the open window, cool on their sticky skin. She wondered if anyone outside heard them, knew what they’d done. She sighed again, content.
“Don’t laugh, all right?” she said. “I thought it would take longer. All night maybe.”
He didn’t chuckle that time; he ran his fingers up and down her shoulder. “But . . . it was all right?” he asked. “I mean, it would go better with practice—”
“Shush. It was perfect. The best.”
It hadn’t been like in chapbooks. At least not quite for her. Maybe for Brin—it seemed more like chapbooks for him. But Havilar figured that the fact he’d known a little of what to do after, when it became clear she hadn’t had the same experience—even if there was plenty of fumbling and giggling and not much serious romantic gazing—meant that their first efforts could be considered very good overall. She’d rather, she thought, laugh than be serious about something so messy and ungainly and personal any way.
Brin rubbed his thumb over her knuckles, his skin so pale next to hers. “Was it how you imagined?
” he asked. “Am I . . . how you imagined?”
She pushed up on one elbow so she could look at him. “I really don’t know. It’s been so long, it feels like, since I wasn’t thinking about you anyway. I forget.”
“Two months,” he said, holding up his fingers.
“I can count,” she said and pinched him. He pinched her back, and this time she grabbed his hand and pulled it close. “It’s not as if I’m what you imagined.”
“No,” he agreed. He traced the edge of her horn over her forehead. “Not outside anyway. Inside . . .” Brin smiled and shook his head. “No, you’re better. Inside and out.”
Havilar snorted, but didn’t tease him about the accidental wordplay. It was too nice a compliment to spoil. He could have a princess, she thought, and he likes you better.
Brin glanced past her at the open window. “Ye gods, it’s still hot as blazes.” But he didn’t push away from her.
Havilar smiled. “Is it this hot where you’re from?”
“In Suzail, it’s not so bad,” he said. “The water keeps the city cooler. As long as you don’t go too far inland, it stays pretty pleasant.” He brushed a strand of hair over her shoulder. “The Citadel’s cooler still, but it’s up in the mountains, so it would be.”
“Does it snow?”
“Lots. I used to have to shovel it off the courtyards. It was supposed to build character.” He chuckled to himself. “Aunt Helindra would have dueled the holy champions herself and won by sheer temper if she’d known. It’s unprincely, shoveling. Anyway, it would always just snow another load the next day. So all winter, I was in the courtyard. Shush,” he said, before she could tease him like usual. “I can shovel snow.”
Havilar smiled—she wouldn’t have teased him, not anymore. Not when she’d seen for herself he was stronger than he looked. “It snows in Arush Vayem, too,” she said. “Right up to your knees. And then the winds come and blow it all around. No one tries to move it—you just stomp it down again and again until spring finally comes.”
“Well I suppose there are other ways to build character,” he said cheekily. He looked her in the eyes for a long moment. “After this, we can go up into the Stormhorns,” he offered. “I could show you the Citadel. Where I grew up. We could even stay the winter, if you like.”
The Adversary Page 3
